Thank You

Thank you.

For sliding that note under the conference room door: “I love you Mom so much.” For the day we corresponded only in song titles because our everydayness was too thick and muddy and scary for our own words. For hot rolling your hair and slipping into a rouge dress for the Godfrey’s drag brunch (and then spilling out into the street sobbing over how much we love-need each other; falling to pieces and picking up pieces and making peace right there in the middle of Grace Street). For your grace. For the running of half-marathons and whole marathons. For marching Onward! For being an Iron Woman. For the DJ who drops sick beats and spins mad sounds and calls me from time to time to talk men’s fashion. For the friendraisers. For the believers. For the Dirty Blondes and The Orderlies. For the army of brave hearts that come at the evils of epilepsy, cancer, diabetes, chronic illness, broken bones, cracked hearts, lice, stomach bugs, skinned knees, snow storms, death – the toughness of life. For coming at tough with tougher; for coming at heavy with lighter; for coming at dark with light. For your force, fortitude, and LOVE LOVE LOVE. For your inappropriate laughter. For gathering. For village-ing. For caroling. For shucking good times. For gaming. For the Cave. For the porches. For the backyards. For your country party field. For Smith Mountain Lake. For the Rockies. For the pirates roaming Bald Head Island. For that day we rooster-tailed through rain puddles in Duck, North Carolina. For your dad’s place in Chatham. For the Lewis Ginter Recreational Center. For Friendsgiving. For fireworks. For Friday family pizza nights degenerating into discos. For theme drinks and costumes. For the vans, station wagons, SUVs, canoes, kayaks, bikes, scooters, skateboards, Radio Flyers, unicycles, airplanes, trains, ferries, trailers and feet that hold us, that carry us, that get us to each other. For the high-school excitement about bands. For Jim James in Asheville. For a Charles Bradley hug. O’ that Screaming Eagle of Soul! For Monday nights with Jason Isbell (and the long, long road home) and The Lone Bellow. For declaring emphatically that we’re not staying out late on a school night. We can’t; we just can’t. For staying out late on school nights. For that Tuesday with Pearl Jam, for your grandmother’s chicken salad, for that Baba O’Riley cover, for a full cooler, for your full-of-coolness. For Sunday night suppers. For The Eagles documentary. For shotgunning that beer before the Drivin’ N’ Cryin’ show at the Paradise Garage. You sure do Fly Me Courageous. For the big bad brass and banging drums sound of No BS! while we carved pumpkins. For the train rumbling by and the James tumbling by and the air full of mighty tunes at Friday Cheers. For locking me into Lock’n by trick-telling me it wouldn’t be “too jammy.” For refusing rushed hugs and handshakes, for holding on tight, so tight I feel like I’m going to break. For blazing into my house on a weekday afternoon while your son’s at baseball because that’s the only time we can steal. For showing up. My goodness, you show up! For wedging in a half-hour for our Lord of the Flies boys because a little time together is better than no time together. Because that moment might be the moment. For pouring me tea in a mug that says “The Universe Knows.” For knowing. For giving long distances the middle finger; nothing will keep us apart. Not ever. For redefining “apart.” For being a part, a huge huge huge part of me. For meeting me behind the scoreboard at halftime at the UVA-Duke game so that our little divas could twirl together, so that we could twirl together. I love that twirly feeling. For hauling me out of tennis retirement because you knew that I could. Because we did. Almost. For recognizing that my “we probably need a break from dogs” statement was my giant, raw hurt talking. For knowing my heart needed a pillow-eating, sock-destroying, panty-raiding, cheese-stealing, toe-breaking, mud-splattering lab-hound rescue. For rescuing me. For curse-badger-encouraging me to swing by your tailgate during a monsoon. For tackle-hugging me in the parking lot and never losing that across-the-street-neighbors lovin’ feeling, even though we live in different towns. For helping me make grown-up decisions, not all the time, but just enough. For reminding me it’s time to schedule summer camps. For the night we drove to DC for that drink we’d been talking about for the last few years. For the homemade Whiz on the cheesesteak we devoured post-runway show. For causing my mascara to run black rivers down my cheeks when you told a crowd of five hundred that I brought joy to every day. For being a joy crusader. You are joy, man. For that Friday afternoon we Just Dance-d before gathering our children from school; Just Dance-d, just ‘cause. For partnering with me on world-changing projects. For believing change is possible. For Convivencia. For telling me to write write write every day. For wander-wondering about why saying someone is nice is an epic compliment to a five year old and somehow just shy of an insult some thirty years later. For being nice – five-year-old-gentle-deep-kind-best-friends-forever-blood-sister nice. For that poem that chiseled through my stone. For being poetry. For those YouTube videos that rocked ‘n’ rolled me out of what was rocking and rolling over me, that funked me out of my funk, that grooved me into the right grooves, that unjammed me with jams. For all those electronic links that link us. For connecting – any and every which way we can. For the radio show we shimmied and shook to in your mama’s living room on a Saturday night. For the brunch at C Street and your whispered wisdom: special takes effort. And for making the effort. For family time. For walks in the woods, fishing adventures, rock-hopping, mountain hikes, South of the James market strolls and Mrs. Yoder’s donuts. For that Kindness Lights street art wall. For that behind-the-back-corner-pocket shot. For singing at the tops of our lungs. For holler-singing with me in cars, bars, basements, river cabins, and beach houses for more than three decades. For tying on aprons and pulling Pernil. For lighting lanterns and tipping light by the lake. For asking me to play H-O-R-S-E. For letting me read Good Night, Gorilla to your cherub and share lipgloss with your princess. For that soak-up-our-sins morning feast around your Seattle table. For feeding my soul. For climbing on the kitchen counter to boogie down to Roar when we should have been working on your math worksheet and rainbow writing. You’ve got the eye of the tiger, baby. For calling me at five o’clock knowing this is the soccer-practice-homework-dinner-prep-report-writing-can-someone-pour-me-a-Scotch-already part of the day. For talking to me right on through all that chaos. For that turkey noodle soup you left on my doorstep when a virus shredded me. For all things left on my doorstep: freshly caught rockfish packed in ice, CDs, concert posters, hoodies, shoes, gloves and other clothes we’ve left strewn about your houses, lipstick, camping gear, a bottle of wine, a growler of beer, a book, homework assignments, and that Gladwell chapter you printed for me. Damn, you keep us together! For playing through pain and age and ache every Sunday on the football field. For yell-coaching me on Monday mornings as if I were an NFL playa. For your fire. For talking “writer to writer” to my daughter. For the spirit of Chancey. For the inspiration of you. For that morning we gabbed about families, moonshine, feuds, music, and the bridging magic of story. For your story. For the artsy, heartsy box of notecards with the van Gogh quote, “Love many things.” For being one of those things. For Cezanne and a plate of ham. For small batches and Christmas sweaters and Ray’s late night. For a spoonful of fried chicken crumbs. For the two ladies on the train, one doing all the talking and the other saying, “Mmmm. Hmmm.” For that fountain in Augusta. O’ that fountain! Was there a more joy-filled and splashed hour! For inviting me to sit down to a long lunch knowing I usually eat a PBJ at my kitchen counter while sorting through mail and making a grocery list. For sharing your masterpieces, your brilliance – written, painted, glued, shellacked, sewn, sung, performed – you add so much color and glitter and splendor and thought and joy-noise to this world. For asking about my disease in a way that doesn’t say, “You poor, frail thing,” but rather “You go, girl!” For those two troughs of coffee downtown on a sunny morning before the James River Writers conference. For feeling WOW WOW WOW about our tomorrows. For ditching fancy, sit-down, date-night-y dinner reservations to go dance for four hours at Terminal 5. For LEE FIELDS! For this reminder from The Dynamites, “Whatever you do, do it with soul.” For doing it with soul. For Charles Walker’s shiny, silver suit. For shining. For Trombone Shorty’s mind-blowing horn-blowing. For not judging me for eating a three-meatball sub after midnight. For embracing my sandwich obsession, no matter where we are in the world. For taking care of my children and for taking care of me. For your advice, your counsel, your help, your pats on the back, your bear hugs, and even those kicks in the ass when I needed ‘em. For switching carpool days, for the sleepovers, for loaning blazers and dress shoes and cat costumes, for happy hours – for all that pinch hitting when my good mothering was in jeopardy. For calling me out when I’d gone silent or dark or tired or martyr-y or sad or angry. For asking me, “Mom, before you go downstairs, will you lie down next to me and listen to the rain?” For inviting me into your calm. For enduring my mad-swirl. For weaving and looming friendship bracelets. For braving snow, ice and drunken Santas on the trains to squeeze into the back booth at Cookshop. For squeezing me into your busyness, for tight-squeezing me. For laughing about the old days and dreaming about the new. For driving thirty minutes WAY out of the way with kids whining, wives bitching, wheels coming off, holly-jolly ripping at the seams and Mariah Carey belting it out in the background so that we could take in the Rosedale light show together. Glory, man. So much Griswoldian glory. For sharing your journey, your heart, your path, your festivals, your art show, your books, your life, your curiosities, your fears, your mixtapes, your work, your plans, your hopes, your drinks, your meals, your seat, your time with me. For turning my head to wonder, to magic, to love, to light, to laughter. For you. For beautiful, hilarious, strong, clever, bold, courageous, generous, bright, outrageous, fresh, zany, electric you.

Thank you for you. Each of you. And all of you.

So this is Christmas.

Snake's Alive! It's a Jungle . . . in Here!

Before there was Keith, the eliminator of hornets and wrangler of reptiles, there was an old, orange shovel and a man willing to country-song save me.

My house doubles as an office and, apparently, as a jungle.

One morning I paced from room to room talking target audiences, messaging and media mix on a call with a client. As I passed through the den, my son’s rubber snake – oddly hanging out in the back corner beneath the cabinets – snared my attention. Well, I thought it was a fake until it so slowly and so silently slid its onyx head up the wall and tongue-zapped a lone spider from a web I hadn’t noticed until that flash kill. So much for Issa’s haiku, “Don’t worry, spiders, I keep house casually.”  I stared at the serpent hunting along the baseboard.  I continued my conversation, or at least tried to, but my brain kept flipping to this reptile stretched across the floor. Finally, I confessed my dilemma, “Kelly, I hate to do this, but I need to call you back.  There is a snake in my den.”

She shouted, “WHAT?  Oh, my God!  That means something, Syd!  That’s symbolic. A sign. Go! Go! Get it out of your house!”

I didn’t know what it meant. But it couldn’t be good. I didn’t know how it got there. Or if it was alone. I did know I wanted it out. O-U-T, out!  I surveyed my sleek visitor, particularly the shape of his head. Deciding he was a rat snake or a racer – in either case more helpful than harmful – I strategized on how I might return him to his wilderness.  When I was about eight, my brother taught me how to handle his pet slitherer, Sammy. It had been about three decades since I had done this, and that was a positively identified grass snake, in an aquarium, a very controlled situation, not a maybe-it’s-harmless-maybe-it’ll-end-me nuisance on the loose in my house. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I envisioned that I could lift the snake by its head, zip to the back door, and fling him gently into the brush and mulch down the side of the yard; but there was something about his position, just beneath the cabinets, his seeming awareness of me without looking at me, the flicker of his forked tongue and his distinct markings that caused me to reconsider a bare-hand removal. 

I began reformulating my plan . . . and wishing I hadn’t donated those rusted fireplace tools.

I couldn’t lose my visual. What if he disappeared into a vent or a cabinet or under a chair? Would I wake up to strangulation by a snakeskin choker?  I decided that I could dart to the mudroom, grab two brooms and a cooler within about ten seconds.  In my mind, I would chopstick the snake, drop it into said cooler, take it outside and release it.  Clearly, I had watched too many episodes of Python Hunters and River Monsters with my kids because that all seemed exceptionally logical, very doable, even normal. Anyone could do this, right?

I snagged my equipment without losing the snake.  I placed an Igloo cooler next to him, but to my dismay, realized the lid would not stay open on its own. I wedged a sofa pillow into the hinges.  I strode quietly over to where the racer lingered under the lip of the cabinets. My heart was cartoon-beating out of my chest. Holding a brush of a broom in each hand, I firmly, but ever-so-tenderly, caught its body with the broomsticks.  I swung toward the cooler, accidentally whacked the pillow, and the snake wiggled out and thudded to the floor. Those Townes Van Zandt Snake Song lyrics You can’t hold me / I’m too slippery played mockingly in my head just as that now biting-mad wriggler’s hiss-strike-hiss-strike-coil-hiss combo sent me six steps back and up onto the couch.

I no longer believed it was harmless.  And, now, needing to feel a bit less alone in battle, I called to my trusty watchdog.  I could see Blue laid out lazily on the floor two rooms over.  Blue didn’t so much as lift his head.  I called again. Nothing.  Shit. This snake bit my dog.  No, this snake killed my dog.  My Mama Bear instincts fired up, as did my rabid imagination, which until then I had kept mostly contained.  Mostly. The snake, still coiled and hissing at me, had taken on pit viper-like proportions, and now I aimed to kill it.

 

The phone rang.  It was my husband breezily checking in at noon.  I cut through our usual hey-how’s-your-day-fine-and-yours pleasantries and asked with a hint of urgency, “Any chance you could come home now? I’m not asking what you’re thinking. There is a snake in our den, and I tried to catch him, but I’ve pissed him off. I mean, really pissed him off. I can’t get Bluedog to respond to me.  I want to kill the snake, but I can’t leave . . .”

“HOW THE HELL DID THE SNAKE GET INTO THE HOUSE, SYD?” my husband boomed in before I could finish.

“Well, I don’t know, maybe a vent, maybe the back door; the kids always leave the doors open. Maybe I dragged him in that rolled-up rug that I’d aired out earlier. I don’t know how it got in.” I swallowed, and something that tasted like pride slid down my throat. “I need help. I can’t leave it because I don’t want to lose it. And Blue’s either being worthless or dead on the living room floor.” I further detailed my failed catch.

“Alright, Syd. Please, don’t do anything else to that snake. I am headed home. I mean it; leave it alone until I get there.”

I thanked him, sort of, but firmly instructed, “When you do get here, bring me that orange shovel.  I think it’s leaning against the house.  JP, don’t come in here without that shovel.”

Time passed. Or maybe it didn’t pass; maybe it just sat there, still, like my dog who hadn’t budged, like that hissing snake. I, on the other hand, standing on the sofa, was anything but still. Scanning the bookshelves for potential weapons, my mind churned and sparked Wile E. Coyote-newfangled ideas about taking out this malingerer. Finally, I heard Jonathan’s car, and I watched as my husband headed for the artillery. When he walked in, neither of us even said hello, but rather at the same time, he asked, “Where is it?” (about the snake), and I demanded, “Where is it?” (about the shovel).

My husband, who loathes snakes, I mean, doesn’t even like to see the pythons behind the glass in pet stores, eyed the twist of darkness on the floor and then eyed the mad-swirl of a wife on the sofa.  And probably thought for a minute to run the fuck for the hills. “I’m not giving you the shovel, Syd,” he said, rightfully reading my body and assuming in my now murderous rage I might put a hole in the floor when I brained the menace. I also suspected he didn’t want to finish the tale he would later tell his buddies over beers, “My wife killed the snake. I just came home to bring her a shovel.”

Instead my cowboy in khakis ambled to the back of the room, floorboards creaking under his leather lace-ups, sunlight slanting through the blinds. Jonathan swallowed hard and gave me that are-you-sure- about-this look that I sometimes see in my son. I wasn’t really sure. Even after comparing hundreds of pictures on my iPhone to this scaled, live loiterer, I couldn’t identify it definitively as good or bad, but I nodded to my husband. I just said, trying to channel some of that Under Armour commercial bravado, for both of us, “We must protect this house.”   

That much I was sure of. Dead sure.

Catching More Than a Buzz

Gravel crackles under a banged-up truck. They’re here. They’re going to save me.

I open the front door and reach my hand through a plume of Marlboro smoke into July’s thick, wet heat, greeting Keith and his shirtless, white-bearded sidekick from Paul B. Davis Bat, Bee and Hornet Removal.

Before I can detail (in other words, launch hysterically into) the two separate hornet issues going down at my house, Keith is zipping into his jumpsuit and hollering through a protective veil, “You've got a hot mess out here, Mrs. Petty. A hot mess! Those suckers are mean. Mean, I tell you. They sting you just ‘cause they can. They’re eating through your walls. Do you hear me? They’re coming through your walls, Mrs. Petty. And when they break through, they’re going to sting you. Sting you ‘cause they can.” 

Keith is rhapsodizing about the swarm of livid beasts driving between the slats of our home’s exterior and, apparently, feeding their way through the interior to our living room. The wall is buzzing and ticking with bees. Not the bumbling nectar gatherers and pollinators. Not the flower dancers. Not the honey makers. No, the wall is buzzing and ticking with raging, ravenous, devil bees and has been for sixteen hours. Sixteen effin hours.

“You go on back inside. We’re going to shoot a killing agent right into the walls. We've got you, Mrs. Petty. We’ve got you.”

I return to my office but can’t concentrate on the white paper I’m drafting because I’m not really sure that Keith and his partner have indeed got me. I put my head in my hands and close my eyes. The vibrations of the wall-eaters are soon layered with the drumming from a pump motor, and only now is it occurring to me that I should have asked if it was safe for me to be in here as insecticide is blasted into my home.

The pump stops, and I hear a knock. Again I swing the door open to a smoke-laced swelter and Keith’s voice, this time asking where the other hornets are. We walk around back, and I point to these wickedly huge wasps that are flying giant arcs across the yard and then disappearing through the lattice at the base of our deck.  Keith explains that these are cicada killers, and they’re hunting. They don’t hive; they burrow. The females have serious stingers, but they’re not aggressive; they’re just downright terrifying because they’re loud and marked for war. They’re big enough to take out a cicada and drag it down into a tunnel for larvae to feed on. Keith tells me the only way to kill them is to spray chemicals into each hole and then gouge it.

He and his partner send me back inside saying it might take a while since we counted at least twenty active wasps during the pop-up Entomology class. And there are probably a lot more, Mrs. Petty. I go back to my desk, try to settle into some research, and almost achieve focus when I hear a thunderous ruckus kick up outside, complete with cursing and yelling and what sounds like the bee killers running. I start toward the kitchen to see what’s going on in the backyard, when the doorbell rings. I nearly trip over the dog getting to the door, which I open to a humongous and very much still alive and angry copperhead thrashing on the end of a snake stick, and Keith is screaming, “This was under your deck! This was where your kids go up and down the stairs! This would KILL you. KILL your kids. KILL your dog. I came within a foot of being killed dead myself! This is the biggest one I’ve ever caught. Can you take a picture? Send it to my boss? My girlfriend? Do you want the snake? Can I keep the snake?”

I assure Keith that I am cool with him keeping the snake, really cool, in fact, but I’d appreciate it if he would please strangle it first. We lay it out on the brick walkway and measure it at 36.5 inches – three feet of pure evil. I snap a picture of Keith and his kill and ping it to his people and to mine. Keith’s boss calls me immediately, and says, “That’s a right big snake. Good thing Keith’s there.”

After we cool off on the porch, relive the serpent-snaring legend a few more times, and come down from the afternoon shock, Keith bags the dead copperhead and throws it in his truck. He straps a tank of repellent on his back and tells me he’s “gonna go Rambo out there” to create a protective barrier. Just before Keith unleashes his hell on my yard, he turns, stares me in the eyes, and then nods, “Like I told you, Mrs. Petty, we've got you.”

The Heartcracker

“There is a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in.” – Leonard Cohen

This one is for the mamas. You all have stories about a child who did something(s) that made your chest tighten, your teeth clench, your neck stiffen, and your head spin. I have those stories, too. Lord knows, my mom has those stories. But don’t forget those moments that broke you wide open and put you back whole at the same time – you know those moments when you can’t see anything but light, can’t feel anything but love, can’t do anything but love back.

  

She came at me all grin and firecracker eyes, slap-wrapped her body around my left leg, and asked in a conjured honeysuckle voice, “Mama, will you come to a Mother’s Day Tea in my classroom?”

My heart cracked open.

“Oh, I’d love to, Bunnyhop. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

She untangled herself and flung her arms out, mad-giggling, “Well, who else would I invite? It is a Mother’s Day Tea!”

My heart cracked open.

“Will you help me pick something out to wear, Mama? I want to look extra special, but I don’t want you to see me until the tea. Just help me come up with some possibilities.”

We skittered upstairs. She turned, blocking her door so that I couldn’t enter, and said, “Oh, Mama. Ohhhhhhh, Mama, my room is a wreck. A wreck. A wreck. A wreck. You’re not going to like it. Not going to be happy one bit. It’s okay though. Let’s just work on the outfit for now.”

This was my six-year-old master-distracter giving me a focus lecture. She undersold the wreckage. I walked into some place unrecognizable as a room in our home. My chest tightened. My teeth clenched. I rubbed my neck and massaged now throbbing temples. Syddie, reading and redirecting me, just said, “Outfits, Mama.”

We sorted through option after option after option after option after option. One dress was too tight on her arms. Another, too short. She wanted to wear a sweater like her friend Maddie, but she didn't own one. She wanted to run out to Target that instant. Her white shoes with bows pinched her toes. Hand-me-down dresses weren’t special enough. Her flower girl frock, too fancy. Her lips quivered. Her eyes puddled. She crumbled. And now, next to the mound of strewn, wrinkled misfits and unfits was a pile of huffing, puffing, sighing, sobbing Little Syd. I wanted to cry, too.

I said, “Come on, Bunnyhop. This doesn't feel very Mother’s Day-ish. I’d rather see you wearing a big ole smile than anything else!”

I bear-hugged my little heap and tickled her ribs and made up a silly song about a girl who couldn't find her outfit and couldn't find her happy and almost made her poor mama cry because the girl was looking in all the wrong drawers and behind all the wrong doors, and really she just needed to open her heartcloset.  She said, “You’re SO crazy, Mama.” And I said, “For you, Syddie.” And in the softer light of a little laughter, we fashioned a few ensembles that had at least a fighting chance of living up to her brand of special, but she said she’d have to sleep on it still.  I asked if I should wear something special, too, and she said, “Oh no, Mama. You should just wear your jeans. I like you best when you are just you.”

My heart cracked open.

“I like you best when you are you, too, Syddie.”

“Just maybe not those jeans with all the holes,” she adds.

And just like that, I can’t see anything but light, feel anything but love, do anything but love back.

Still Playing Dress Up (this time as a Mom)

This one’s for my dear friend, Red.  We’ve raised so much together, pal – a little hell here and there, a few glasses, children and from time to time, each other.  I wish you luck and laughter in the throes of labor and delivery.  I know the possibility of having a little girl makes you nervous…and probably with good reason given some of our own history.

Like the Allende meteorite, my daughter’s birthday streaks through the holidays – a blazing fireball with all the potential of cratering just four days after Christmas.  Santa, generous grandparents, bighearted aunts and an uncle set a sky-scraping bar for the mom-come-party-planner in me.  Before I can clear away the scraps of ripped up red and green wrappings and strewn streamers of ribbon, December 29^th is knocking impatiently at the front door and threatening to ring my bell, too.  Kids are crashing from candy cane highs, and parents palpitate anxiously as they stare down the barrel of another week without school.  Add to this balance hang, Little Syd’s swiftly shifting opinions and expectations regarding how she should be celebrated, and I usually find myself in a modern day fairytale, trying to summon some she-roics and bibbidi-bobbidi-boo birthday magic.

This year, to mark her majesty’s milestone of four years, I called girlfriends of all ages from across the land for costuming, cupcakes and karaoke – a tulle and tunes twist to the tired-but-tried-and-true princess theme.  Given the complicated calendaring and overwhelming obligations of the season, I had to practically stalk would-be guests to gather enough support to officially declare this event more than a glorified playdate.  Finally after a few days of determined phoning, texting and emailing, I confirmed a party of five, and turned my attention to the feast, flair and fanfare for the fete, wishing all along for a wand and some pixie dust.

First, I planned a light lunch for the lasses:  warmed ham biscuits with a poppy seed and mustard butter (or just plain mayonnaise for the less adventurous), fresh fruit and sparkling lemonade.  Wanting an elegant flourish, I climbed on the counter to retrieve a stack of hand painted porcelain dessert plates which had collected a good bit of dust in their decade of neglect.  I grew nostalgic for my grandmother, remembering our tea parties and how she served chicken salad sandwiches and Charles Chips to me on her own gold leafed bone china.  I loved how she trusted and treated me like a lady – every day, not just on special occasions – even when I was little.  Per usual I hadn’t left enough time to go waltzing wistfully through the wilderness of my memories, so I jumped down with plates in hand, nearly breaking every last one of them when I landed (read: not very ladylike, neither dainty nor demure, really shouldn’t be trusted with heirlooms at any age, etc.).    

Snapping back to reality (or at least my version of it), I hurriedly bedazzled the dining room table with crystal, white candles, crisp linens and lilies (admitted layovers from holiday hostessing).  I stepped back to take in the tablescape and half-expected the teacups to turn a tango with the candelabra.  However, I bumped into Little Syd who, with hands on her hips, immediately tut-tutted and tsk-tsked and threw wrinkles into this regal plan unfolding – reminding me with the subtlety of a hammer that it was her birthday, not mine.  She pretty-please asked me for some princess-y paper plates and pink plastic forks instead.  A few flashbacks of spilled juice, broken glass and water rings in the wood later, I fully surrendered form(al) to function.  I also realized that I seem to expect messiness and chaos (and get it) whereas my grandmother expected decorum and grace (and got it).  Again, with this little birthday bash closing in on me, I couldn’t pursue my thoughts about self-fulfilling prophecies and today’s little princesses, but I filed this in the Be A Better Parent manila folder in my mind.

With menu and table set, I shifted gears to the party’s activity, secretly wishing for the simplicity of pin the tail on the donkey or the ease of Chuck E. Cheese’s.  Instead, I dragged down a basket brimming with glitz and shine – some gowns gifted, some handed down – all of scratchy, shimmery, sequined and synthetic fabrics complete with worn velcro and shot elastic.  I itched and hitched just looking at the gobs of glam.  Next I plugged in the karaoke machine and tested the microphone (maybe I even donned Syd’s pink boa and gave my Gloria Gaynor a go…and perhaps a little Dusty Springfield, while no one was looking or listening, of course).  After Windex-ing my daughter’s new full-length mirror, I crossed “Entertainment” off the mental party list running in my brain. 

This left cupcakes (and very little time before I was to turn into the proverbial pumpkin).  Earlier, while I was checking out at Target with a handful of paper products and plasticware in every shade of rose, blush and bashful, I spied miniature Disney purchase-me-NOW princesses dangling at child’s eye level in the impulse buy section.  But it was I, not my daughter, who grabbed two Cinderellas, left my cart to hold my place, and bounced like some Girl, Interrupted from one line to the next looking for enough dolls for each guest.  With fists full of four Cinderellas, one Aurora, and one Ariel, I rushed home to begin the Cupcake Wars in my kitchen, a battle between me and my imagination. 

I raided the cupboard and cabinets for sugary embellishments and food coloring, and I stripped the helpless heroines of their teeny-tiny rubber dresses.  I jammed a Cinderella into an upside down cupcake that I hoped to transform into a gown fit for a ball, but alas, the doll was a touch too tall.  If this really were the Food Network’s take on a bakeoff, the camera would zoom in on me pressing palm to brow, bleep a flood of obscenities, pan to the ticking-tocking time bomb of a clock, and a voice might say, “We really hate to see this happen to someone who has worked so hard.  I am not sure even a fairy godmother could turn this around.” 

Sweating and seemingly circling back to the I Will Survive theme of previous famed sound-checking, I sheared down a mini-cake on the fly and fastened it to the regular cake with a flick and flounce of frosting.  Thankfully, the four Cinderellas played nice and settled into their spongy yellow tiers.  To match the color of their bustiers, I swirled a few drops of blue into the buttercream and then thickly swept the sweetness over the now double-deckers.  I recruited Sir Jonathan with his giant salmon-catching paws to cast candy pearls onto the skirts (and bit my perfectionist tongue as I watched wide-eyed his Big Bang spray of sprinkles).  The last two princesses called for petal pink frocks and more studded styling, and once iced and detailed, took their places next to the four Cindys. 

I surveyed the scene on the silver tray and laughed at the five pretty and prim royals, and that siren Ariel, who is Little Syd’s favorite.  With a shock of flaming hair and a seashell bikini, my daughter’s celebratory confection looked like a stripper bursting from a birthday cake.  Accidentally perfect…a showgirl for my showgirl.  When Little Syd saw the cupcake queens-to-be, she gasped.  She approved.  She lit up with wild delight.  And in that moment, that split-second, happily ever after seemed within reach.  For both of us.  Right up until the damsels-turned-divas birthday guests started frantically fighting over the lone Aurora.

Not-So-Smooth Operators

I: Order in the House

Nearly three weeks before our move across town, I responsibly rang up Verizon, navigated a series of key and voice prompts, waited some twenty-six minutes and finally found myself speaking with a human, I think.  She asked some of the same questions I had just answered and then in a nasal monotone with traces of low-grade irritation said that she could not make changes unless the accountholder authorized her to do so – the accountholder being my husband of twelve and half years who has not made one of these calls probably in at least as many years.  I calmly replied, “Mrs. Novack, I can have Jonathan dial you up or we can patch him into this call, and I will likely recommend, and he will surely authorize, closing this account and transferring our business to your competitor.  He really has no allegiance to our home provider.  However, if you would be so kind as to check the active email address and the signature on the checks, you will see that for eight plus years, I have made not most, but all decisions with regard to our account.  Please, Mrs. Novack, do you think you or perhaps your supervisor can help me with this transfer of bundled services today?” 

She sighed, snapped and then sucker-punched me with some sarcasm of her own, “Let’s get started, Mrs. Petty.  I can see you are a valued customer.”  She curtly clacked my new information into her database, and I could almost hear her lips curling into a deliciously wicked grin as she delivered the news that FiOS, Verizon’s fiber optic faster-than-cable-even-in-peak-hours solution which I had enjoyed for the last few years, was not available at my new address, and thus, I must return to DSL.  She assured me that my email address and phone number would neither change nor would service be interrupted; the DSL line would be dedicated, thus faster than, say, Comcast cable; and DirecTV was much improved in its consistent satellite delivery, even in stormy weather.  Something about how she painstakingly and precisely piled up these pumped up promises made me uncomfortable.  She must go by Charlotte or Char, short for Charlatan.  However, the continuance of my email address was important to me from a business perspective, so I begrudgingly tolerated the degradation and downgrades and marked January 21^st between the hours of eight and twelve: Day of Execution.  When I set the phone back in its cradle, I mourned the loss of sixty-two minutes.  I would never get them back. 

On January 18^th I rang Verizon to confirm the appointment and again was time-sucked into the labyrinth of the customer service loop.  Alas, the delightfully diligent Mr. DeWitt chimed in after seventeen minutes in the queue and quite chipperly checked off his pledge list: the technician would be in and out quickly for the DirecTV hookup, the phone line would go live seamlessly from a remote location, and the DSL self-install was virtually impossible to botch.  I had that same ill-at-ease Glengarry Glen Ross you-are-so-being-sold-sister feeling, as the words virtually impossible knotted my stomach and tightened my chest.

II: Disorderly Conduct

Around seven in the morning on the twenty-first, after settling the kids at the new kitchen counter with their eggs and English muffins, I checked my BlackBerry messages.  The first and only email that day came under the subject line: Action Required, and the text indicated that my Verizon email account had been disabled.  While this news chafed me given the guarantees of Mrs. Novack and Mr. DeWitt, I had expected and even prepared for a few hitches in the hookups; after all I haven’t heard many Moving is the Best! stories in my time, nor have I experienced any firsthand.  I took a deep breath and went to check the telephone for a dial tone, as the number was to be activated first thing in the morning.  Nothing but dead silence rang in my ears.  Strike one.

Jonathan, with earnest sympathy, wished me luck, and he and the kids headed out into their fully wired and functioning worlds, leaving me alone to slay the looming electronic dragon now threatening our sanctuary.  As we had moved our material lives from one address to another just the day before there was still plenty to unpack, shelve, hang and find a place for – plenty to dos to distract me from these un-doings.  The eight o’clock hour passed, as did nine, ten and eleven.  The tension took hold in my neck and shoulders first, and I found myself rolling my head, inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly, pacing, meditating, and willing the nagging little sparks of rage away. 

At 11:45 AM, the doorbell rang.  Before the thought Ahhhh, Finally! could crystallize in my head, in slogged a technician with mud on his boots and mad on his tongue.  Visibly frustrated from his previous service call, Raj scowled at and scorned me for choosing DirecTV as a resident in the city – this from the man wearing a DirecTV identification badge.  He cynically questioned why I chose Verizon over Comcast – again, this from the man being paid through a Verizon partnership.   When I pointed out the equipment errors on his work order versus my service agreement (which thankfully I had at least saved on my computer), he slammed down his paperwork and furiously punched numbers into his handheld.  His head shook, no, his whole body quaked, and he was telling, no, yelling at me that he should just walk away, just walk away until the back office could get its act together.   I was almost ready to agree with him, given that he was smoking and spitting out flames, seemingly seconds from going full Vesuvius in the front hall.  He jammed his phone into my palm and demanded in heated, slightly broken-English, “You see if you work this out with my super.  Otherwise, I leave.  I leave now.  I leave right now.”  Strike two.

After a few intense rounds with the supervisor and a transfer to billing and then back to the supervisor, the orders were reconciled, another truck would deliver the correct equipment within the hour, and authorization was given to continue work.  The dish was mounted, unobtrusively and without event, and the now somewhat settled tech returned inside to identify where lines needed to be connected.  He then said he would go into the crawl space to make said connections and asked that I remain in the den to tap the floor where we needed to drill a hole to run the line through – and so began my lesson in coaxial wire fishing.  While I assisted without comment (which is hard for me) to keep the process moving forward, I did wonder why he had not brought someone along, especially since he reminded me no less than four times that this was at least a six-hour job for only one man.  Through the floor vents, I could hear him bristling and cursing beneath the house.  I asked if he could hear me.  A grumbling followed, then a rustling, then silence.  A few minutes later, he was back inside, covered in dust and flecks of insulation and his head hung low.  He said, “Mrs. Petty, you cannot have what you want.  You simply cannot.  There are two ducts that I can’t pass through.  I am, too, how do you say…burly?”  Here we go again.

Against my better judgment, which by the way is probably crumpled in a corner along with the original paperwork for this order, I asked if I could give it a go, if I could fit through the ducts.  His eyes bulged and he began shaking his head so violently I thought it might disengage.  “Mrs. Petty, that is absurd. I cannot authorize you to handle the cable, to go under the house.  I cannot.  I will not.  I most certainly will not.”  I almost laughed at his kind of Seuss-ical response, especially since he also sounded strikingly like Apu, the Indian character on The Simpsons.  But some strange No Retreat, No Surrender/MacGyver impulse kicked in, and I defiantly stormed out of the room, grabbed his flashlight and my cell phone from the counter, and headed outside.  I crawled through the first underground room on my hands and knees and yelled back to Raj to go tap the floor in the den so that I could follow the sound.  When I made the turn into the second underground room, I had to drop to my elbows and G.I. Jane belly-crawl toward the tapping.  Giant camel crickets – the ones that look like jumping spiders – eyed me cautiously from their upside-down perches, and little rushing noises reminded me that snakes and rats and other vermin liked dark and damp places, last I checked.  I thought I was either going to be sick, eaten alive or become the subject of one of those mysterious disappearance shows.  I fully appreciated why Raj had been cursing earlier, as I found myself doing the same.  Eventually, I located the cable, managed to wriggle through the ducts and could hear the wrapping just inches away from me, but I couldn’t get to him because I had run into a cement wall, the end of the crawl space, a real bitch of barrier in the wire-fishing world.  I wiggled down through the ducts and slid and slithered back to daylight.  When I returned covered in dirt and with two dead stink bugs tangled in my hair (seriously), Raj smiled for the first time in four hours, and the only time that day, as far as I could tell.

He called in two senior technicians to develop and execute a new plan of action.  Perhaps he could have done this sooner.  By four o’clock, there was still no television, still no dial tone and still no internet connection.  In a thirty-two minute check-in with Verizon, Miss Thomas guaranteed me that the phone would be up by five o’clock.  In the midst of all of the misfiring and the litany of let-me-downs, my children returned home and shortly thereafter, my friend and her twins stopped by to check our progress.  After drinking a beer with me, swapping some whose-move-was-worse war stories, and witnessing a host of workarounds, one of which included staple-gunning about fifteen feet of black cable around baseboards and a doorway, my friend dryly advised, “Syd, maybe you should let your husband handle the electronics.”  We laughed (and I nearly cried).

Finally, at around seven, Raj wrapped it up and pushed some papers in my face for signatures of satisfaction.  Really?  Before I could scrawl anything in triplicate, I politely asked him to give me a channel and remote control tour, inquired about pay-per-views and digital video recordings, and posed a few other normal conversion questions.  But Raj was done with me.  Totally done with me.  He’d already washed his hands of the day’s debacle; he wanted a cold one somewhere far away from here.  He told me to read the manual.  He told me he didn’t do phones or internet.  He wrote down the number for customer service – even his DirecTV pen was sneering at me.

While High-Def was in da house and those snooping teenagers and their pesky dog were back on the flat screen, fingering old man Withers at the abandoned carnival for attempting to steal Uncle Jack’s fortune, five o’clock had come and gone with no dial tone.  I called Verizon one more time and was greeted by the message, “We’re presently experiencing a high call volume.  You may experience a longer than usual wait.  Thank you for choosing Verizon.”  And thank you, too, Verizon for making me feel all warm and fuzzy about said choice.  When Mrs. Jackson came on the line, she said, “I am sorry, Mrs. Petty.  There is really nothing we can do at this time.  We’ll need to send a technician out, but Monday morning is the soonest someone will be available.  You’ll be down for the weekend.  Someone can be there between eight and noon?”  Strike three.  You’re out, Mrs. Petty.

III: Out of Order (Luck, Patience, etc.)

On Monday morning I wished Jonathan a happy birthday and he again wished me luck with Verizon.  The hours ticked away.  At noon, having heard from no one, I placed yet another call.  When Mrs. Reed told me that it appeared the order had been cleared and closed, I just sank, sank right down to the cold kitchen tiles, tears of near defeat flooding down my cheeks (I think the weight of the actual move must have been bearing down on me…the losses, the lack of continuity, the unknowns…the unsettling as one resettles).  I wanted to scream, Are you fucking kidding me?!, but I didn’t have the strength.   Instead, with voice cracking and through sniffs, I asked how it could be closed if I still had no telephone or internet service.  She was sympathetic or at least pretended to be as she offered to transfer me to another department, but I begged her not to throw me into the abyss of no resolution, as I had been hanging out there for some four days.  I begged her to see this through.  I asked if she thought speaking to a supervisor or notifying the SCC might make a difference, and I learned that namedropping was a necessary evil, for the mere mention of the Commission resurrected Mrs. Reed’s enthusiasm for stellar customer service. 

Within the hour my landline telephone (yes, the landline, hallelujah!) rang, and Jamie said that he was around the corner at the remote box and would be at the house within ten minutes to secure the line.  Five minutes later the doorbell rang.  In walked Jamie, and while he didn’t have a cape, sword or movie star locks, backlit and flowing in the wind, he kicked off enough hero vibe to this downtrodden damsel to give me hope.  What I gathered in about five minutes was that mergers and acquisitions in telecommunications were a bit like arranged marriages, and the brides, not yet broken by their bridegrooms, were still kicking, screaming and clinging to their independence.  There was no love and certainly no communication among the parties – nothing was synchronized.  I was caught in a dot-net/dot-com crossfire of grand-scale irreconcilable differences.  Further, not meaning to salt my wounds but doing so nonetheless, Jamie told me that not only did I have FiOS capacity, but he had run the line last year through the neighborhood before the Verizon layoffs.  Net-net, all of this suffering was for naught, there had been no need to downgrade.  He gave me the business office direct line and his number, and said it would be hard to get out of the contracts, but not impossible, and that really, Verizon should make this right.

I couldn’t quite wrap my head around what I was going to have to do and undo to get what I wanted done and undone.  What I needed was internet service, preferably my old email address, but specifically the ability to electronically connect to the outside world – professionally and personally – from home, incidentally not only the place I live but where I work.  Jamie told me that he had not been trained on the internet side of the business, but I asked him to stay and witness the self-installation process (remember…virtually impossible to botch per Mr. DeWitt).  I connected the Y-cable, turned on the computer and modem in the order described in the Quick Start Guide, clicked the perky Let’s Get Started! icon, and followed the prompts.  A file began downloading and reached about fifty-eight percent, then crashed.  The following message box jeered, “The install files are corrupted.  Please contact customer service.”  I sighed.  I placed my hands beside the computer, so that I wouldn’t throw it.  My fingers were shaking.

Probably sensing a Steel Magnolia-esque meltdown, Jamie dialed someone in the field and handed me his phone.  I had no idea who was on the line with me as Jamie had only referred to the voice as a computer genius.  The genius said, “Please don’t ask questions, just do as I say.  Let’s bypass the bullshit and get you reconnected.”  He then told me to type in an address comprised of numbers, dots and slashes, gave me all sorts of codes and passwords, and within two minutes, the world opened back up, like a National Geographic slow-motion-flower-blossom reel.  The genius said he couldn’t do anything about my email address because that was a database re-pointing issue between FiOS and DSL, and I would have to go through the traditional channel of Tech Support.  I thanked the nameless mastermind and his apprentice, Jamie, instinctively bowing my head in reverence and profound gratitude.

At this point, I had not gone to the butcher, the market, or even left the house. Jonathan’s birthday dinner was slipping into the realm of best laid plans and good intentions.  I called my husband and relayed the status report – Television: check.  Phone line: check.  Internet connection: check.  Email address: negative.  Birthday dinner: negative.  Syd from school: negative.  I think JP was still on a high from a Saturday night dinner with friends (birthday celebration number one) and a small bacon-and-all-things-Petty-inspired surprise party on Sunday (birthday celebration number two) because he pushed his disappointment about birthday celebration number three aside, fetched our second-born, and then shopped for and mostly made his own dinner.  I did make him a dessert, though – shook five cookies out of a bag, arranged them on a plate and lit a candle in the center.  I told him, “Some years you get Italy.  Some years you get Frank Stitt’s Seven-Layer Coconut Cake confection, and this year, my dear, Pepperidge Farm and a votive.  Happy Birthday.”  I couldn’t get through the song without seizing up with laughter, and I cracked up again when I saw my sister-in-law’s mobile upload to Facebook.  I am still laughing now, knowing I will “pay” for this birthday for years.  The point is I am still laughing, several address changes later.

I will spare you the tedious account of the next seven days, including the eight hours I spent on the phone with techies from America to Asia and back, only to find out that keeping my email address – the trigger for all of this madness – was never a real possibility.  But let me shoot straight – take notes Verizon – on what I (re)learned: moving is hard.  You are going lose stuff, stuff like the plastic pitcher for your husband’s iced tea, the vacuum cleaner bags, a Black Crowes poster and maybe even your virtual address.  But it’s stuff and if you don’t just move on, well, you stand to lose even more – your sanity, your perspective, and heaven forbid, your shield of humor.  So keep moving, friends, always forward, with a smile, no matter the bumps, the bugs and the barriers that come before you.  And to think, all this light tipped from a two dollar Target clearance bag of Mint Milanos…

From Humbug to Humbled at the Hands of Hooligans

I: The Humbuggery

Saturday mornings slide into us sideways, wild and without mercy, just like the Monday through Friday that come before it.  Technically, we have an extra hour or so to prepare for takeoff, and our destinations are dance and kung fu versus work and school.  However, the routine (I am using this term loosely) is much the same…rude awakening, feeding frenzy, clothing crises, cursory calendar reviews, terse task passing, search for keys, and rounding out with a grumbling and fumbling roll out of the door.  A few weeks ago, Little Syd crept into our room breaking the day well before the sun ever had a chance.  She pitter-pattered across the hardwoods and gingerly kissed my nose.  I half-dreamed she was a butterfly or an angel, but then the sweetness soured as she jammed the arms of my glasses right into my eyeballs and summarily stripped me of the comforter and sheets.  She clasped her throat with one hand and fake-gasped that she was starving and dying of thirst.  To avoid her trademark paroxysmal fury (and thus the potential for sparking full-bore pandemonium in the Petty home), I caved.  I climbed out of bed, whisked her into my arms, and dragged and stumbled down the stairs.

I cocooned Syd in a green fleece blanket, piled her into a soft, swiveling chair and turned on a Phineus and Ferb, hoping to placate her long enough to make coffee – lots of it – and pour her cereal and milk.  I went through those motions of mollification, knowing well that I was running counter to conventions of today’s high-quality, hands-on mothering.  I eyed the clock and noted that we had two more hours before dashing off to Dance Masters.  About that time Eli moseyed into the kitchen, perched on the stool, and ordered up eggs, bacon and an “English.”  Jonathan strolled into the scene with the newspaper tucked under his arm, and take-it-easy ideas of sinking into the other swiveler to thumb through the news.  Before any first light pleasantries could sing from his lips, a venomous, soon to be violent, spat broke out between brother and sister over the coveted first chair.  Threats of parental wrath and a toy-less Christmas quashed the quarrel, at least temporarily. 

In our second take, so to speak, I filled our cups full with the darkest brew and slid fork-split muffins into the toaster, while Jonathan manned the scramble and sizzle of two skillets.  We were a breakfast symphony of sorts.  For a split second, what was once the calamitous cracking of dawn flowered into a Norman Rockwell American family portrait of rising, shining, day-breaking goodness.  I relished this tiniest sliver of still-in-our-pajamas time, this welcome leave from the packed agenda, the bullet points and to dos.  As surely as I hummed and harmonized in my head, the universe blasted the proverbial Mr. Bluebird from my shoulder.  This time it wasn’t blunt force trauma to my eyes that stole my vision.  With a cartoonish BANG!  SPLASH! and THUD!, Eli’s glass toppled over splattering and spraying orange juice in all crevices of the countertop and floor tiles, and almost simultaneously Syd spilled out of her chair.  Convulsive crying and compulsive cursing jumpstarted the blame hurling and the I am sorry swirling, which leveled the languor of our almost chill Saturday morning.  Somehow in less than a minute, the once buoyant banter about shuttling dancers and young masters, blowing the leaves, and later trimming the tree to holly-jolly tunes twisted into this urgent, pressing debate about dealing with the undone, messiness of our clutter-y, clatter-y, clumsy lives.  We fell into line, soldiering onward into the timeslots, checkboxes and tasks outlining our days.  The girls went one way, and the boys went the other.  I heard Faith Hill crooning, “Where are you Christmas?  Why can’t I find you?”

II:  The Humbling

Syd and I split and sped off with an extensive list of humdrum have-to-dos, while Jonathan stayed behind laboring in the backyard with our boy.  Around noon and at my husband’s request, I rang up my friend Amanda and asked if her son William could come over to break the monotony of this year’s Great Rake.  Instead of just one little boy, she sent two (William and Raine), plus her husband Ed and his blower (and yes, we howled as we spun and spiraled down every inappropriate joke about blowing).  Thanks to a neighbor’s colossal oak, leaf removal is an Everest-like achievement.  I think Jonathan and Eddie raked, blew, and dragged the tarp to the curb for four hours, maybe more.  And for this same amount of time, I think three six-year-old boys let their imaginations stretch to the far reaches of the cosmos, inside our house – fairly unattended, well, self-policing, I should say.    

While some combination of outdoor progress and indoor obliteration went down back at the ranch, Syd and I trudged about town, dutifully scratching off our line items, intermittently listening to Lady Gaga (her request), Sharon Jones (mutually agreed upon) and The Black Keys (my 2010 obsession band).  Finally, we landed at the Azalea Garden Center where together we wandered an Evergreen labyrinth in search of a Christmas tree, shorter and thinner than in years past so as not to overwhelm the space of the living room, per realtor staging instructions.  While usually I might be bent by such boundaries, the family that runs the nursery greeted Syd and me with gigantic smiles, bear hugs, well wishes and quickly joined us in the search for this year’s Charlie Brown tree.  When we found our slim, yet full Frazier Fur, our friends gave her a fresh cut and even attached the stand, which to me seemed a most masterful maneuver to stabilize far more than the tree.  I think Christmas stands and light strands threaten wedded bliss just like putting cribs together, installing car seats and getting lost do.

As the girls hurried home, my grip on the wheel relaxed, and I joined Syd in singing the jazzy, jolly jingles streaming from the all-holiday-all-the-time station, and I knew that bumping into buddies and laughing with lit up people scattered throughout our day had de-Grinch-ed and un-Scrooged me.  Ho-hum was more ho-ho-ho, and Saturday felt more like Saturday, and ‘tis the season sank into us.  When we arrived at 4501, Syd and I burst through the front door harking and heralding news of the tree.  Eli and his two pals, shirtless and shoeless, froze with their grubby hands jammed into a Frito bag, a Goldfish box and a bowl of Pirate’s Booty, respectively.  A quick scan revealed that they had at a minimum unfolded, hung and tied nine blankets to create a wicked, cool fort in the living room.  Using every piece of rope and twine, including wrapping paraphernalia, they had woven a web through the chandelier and banister (and incidentally they were trying to stifle snickers as I had tripped into their trap upon entering the house).  Shoes, socks, shirts, hats, gloves and other accessories littered the floors of three rooms.   The scene was stunning, Animal House stunning.  My little Deltas’ attention to destructive detail was unmatched by anything I had yet to encounter in my six years of motherhood, my four years of college, really my thirty-six years of life, but at the same time I knew I was witnessing joy – all-in-all-out joy.

I strolled out back to check in with the dads, who having finished their blowing and put down their tools, were shooting the breeze and drinking beers by the fire pit.  I recruited Jonathan to drag the tree in so the frat boys and princess could adorn and bedazzle it.  I lugged the decorations and lights up from the basement, one box at a time.  Before I laid down any laws about the fragility of some ornaments that dated back to my early childhood, one of Eli’s friends dropped a glass ball filled with some powdery snow (probably of the toxic variety) and sent shards in all directions.  Shocked at the shattering, Syd who was holding one of those Christopher Radko museum ornaments dropped hers, too.  To avoid the unavoidable outcome of bare feet and broken glass, I placed each half-dressed child in a chair so I could sweep away the wreckage (and my sentimentality).  As I cleared the carnage, Eli’s other friend crashed a cup of milk into the powder and shrapnel.  His eyes grew wide and he struggled anxiously, “Tall Syd, please don’t…please don’t be mad.  We don’t have to tell my mom, do we?” 

We continued this way, breaking things, falling off step stools, hanging too many balls, snowmen and Santas on single branches, and not evenly spacing lights until the little tree could bear no more of our decorative abuse.  In the midst of a ransacked, tossed house stood our little tree, beautiful, full of friendship, full of color and light.  In the midst of our mess, stood our life, beautiful, full of friendship, full of color and light. 


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Dish out some happy and be kind, good people.  More later.